


A Thing to be Wound Up and Set Loose

by dotYoo



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Atlas (BioShock) is Not Frank Fontaine, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, use your people words folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotYoo/pseuds/dotYoo
Summary: Jack is fine, Jack is goddamn indestructible.  He’s the strongest man ever made and even if he dies there’s the Vita-Chambers, and as long as they’re working there’s no reason to panic--Ice blossoms in Atlas' chest.  He was panicked.  He was worried because he thought something had happened to Jack.  He had cared.Oh fuck.AU where Atlas came to Rapture to be a mechanic first, ruthless socialist revolutionary second, and accidental romantic third.
Relationships: Atlas/Jack (BioShock)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 183





	A Thing to be Wound Up and Set Loose

**Author's Note:**

> This is my favorite game of all time and if I want to write fanfiction about it 15 years after the fact then damn it I WILL.
> 
> Apparently I like to get really excited about an idea, then spend the next few months agonizing over it while creativity and perfectionism duke it out. I'd like to learn to stop putting so much pressure on things like this.
> 
> This is, obviously, a cannon divergence: Atlas is real and commissioned Jasmine Jolene, Suchong, and Tenenbaum to make Jack. In this timeline Ryan has been in charge of the Little Sister/Big Daddy program from the beginning, meaning Atlas was able to pay Suchong and Tenenbaum well enough to work for both warring parties. I would have liked to get into that more, but those notes will have to stay in the end-notes.

“Come in, Jack. I know you’re out there.”

All things considered, Atlas thinks he’s been more than fair. After finally toppling Ryan, he’d answered Jack’s questions about his origins, let him rage and break things and fight until exhaustion had forced him to stop. Carried him home and let him know the score: yes, he’d commissioned Jack from Jasmine Jolene, hired Suchong and Tenenbaum to grow him into a perfect human being and condition him into perfect obedience. Yes, he belonged to Atlas. And yes, since Atlas’ mission wouldn’t be complete until they’d cleared out Rapture and brought it to full potential as an undersea socialist utopia governed by the will of the people, Jack would also be staying here to carry that out. They’re already bound by the blood they’ve spilled, and they’re in this together.

He’d pushed a few times, testing Atlas’ boundaries, but they’d eventually fallen into a routine: Atlas gives Jack assignments to carry out during the day, usually clearing splicers and repairing the worst of the damage in whatever section of Rapture they’re currently working on, then lets him go about his own business at night, letting Jack do as he pleases as long as he comes back by midnight. Jack spends most of his free time saving Little Sisters, and Atlas gives him free reign. He likes to think the two of them have built something of a rapport, if he’s feeling generous, until one evening he calls curfew and Jack doesn’t. Come. Home.

“Come on, kid, don’t do this.”

He can’t find him on the security cameras. Jack has well and truly gone off the radar.

“I thought we’d moved past this,” Atlas growls into the radio, “Are you really going to make me ask nicely?”

The line stays resolutely silent.

“You’ve forced my hand, boyo, don’t say I didn’t give you a choice. Would you kindly answer me?”

It takes a moment before the radio crackles in response. “M’here,” Jack says.

“Fucking finally,” Atlas snaps irritably, “Where are you?”

“I’m not sure.” Jack’s voice has a distant quality, like he’s holding the receiver too far from his face.

Atlas’ sense of wrongness blares loudly in the back of his head. “Are you alright? Talk to me, what’s going on?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jack says even more faintly, “Give me just a minute.”

“You’ve had more than enough time,” Atlas growls, “Get back to base, would you kindly.”

Jack doesn’t reply.

“Jack? _Jack._ For god’s sake-- would you kindly _answer me._ ”

Nothing. Atlas studies the security feeds, desperately searching Rapture’s ruins for an idiot in a beige sweater. He sees splicers crawl through the rubble, Little Sisters gather Adam with their Big Daddy guardians, and fish swim past the windows in great, glittering schools; Rapture is full of movement and none of it is his suddenly insubordinate pet soldier.

Just as he’s decided to go out and find the kid himself, Atlas catches movement on a camera on the transit circuit. Jack climbs out of a bathysphere, looking whole and fine like he hasn’t been making Atlas’ stomach leap around in his guts for the last quarter hour.

 _“Why the fuck weren’t you answering me,”_ Atlas snarls into the radio.

On screen, Jack holds the receiver away from his face as he twiddles the volume dial. “No reception.”

Atlas takes a deep breath. “Get your ass back here. Do not test me.” He clicks the radio off and tells his thundering heart to calm down. Jack is fine, Jack is goddamn indestructible. He’s the strongest man ever made and even if he dies there’s the Vita-Chambers, and as long as they’re working there’s no reason to panic--

Ice blossoms in his chest. He was _panicked _. He was worried because he thought something had happened to Jack. He had cared.__

Oh fuck.

  


* * *

  


He makes Jack stick close after that. They go out together and they work side-by-side because Atlas refuses to let the kid out of his sight, at least until he figures out what to do about the _feelings_ that seem to have cropped up. Now that he’s paying attention, he notices the light reflecting off Jack’s hair. The way Jack’s legs bend just before he springs forward to deck a man in a rabbit mask. The satisfied huff he makes after successfully hacking a vending machine. There are a thousand little details Atlas has apparently been cataloging, and every one of them takes up valuable memory space that could be used for planning Rapture’s future. It’s useless. Worse than that, it’s pointless. Worst of all, he can’t seem to stop.

They’re out on morning patrol, clearing Splicer from Atlas’ newly annexed territory in Hephaestus, when Atlas spots what will become the first clue. Settling these occupancy disputes is bloody work; Atlas’ specialization in pistols keeps him slightly cleaner, but Jack, who’s first choice is still the electric one-two punch he learned on his first day under the ocean, is saturated in gore.

“Christ,” Atlas says, eyeing Jack’s dripping sweater. He’s rolled back the sleeves, for all the good it does, and has handprints up and down his clothes from trying to wipe his palms clean. “How’d you get it on your back?”

Jack shrugs.

Atlas remembers that smear of blood between Jack’s shoulder blades. He’d only noticed because the red stood out against the otherwise clean patch of fabric. Jack is fussy about his hands (their bloody laundry pile is testament to that) but he wasn’t in the habit of twisting around to wipe them on his back. It shouldn’t have been there. But Atlas had chalked it up to a messy fight and left it alone.

He did notice the second clue. Jack, pig-headed bastard that he is, thinks injuries have no place in polite conversation and has a nasty habit of dropping dead from them without warning. Atlas doesn’t like surprises at the best of times, and has learned to keep a close eye on his pet for signs of pain; the same day as the bloody back smear, he notices Jack keeps rolling his shoulders in a way that telegraphs ‘I am uncomfortable’.

With Jack, uncomfortable can range between _papercut_ and _rib through the lung_.

“Jack,” Atlas says.

Jack tilts his head slightly in Atlas’ direction instead of, say, making eye contact or grunting or, god forbid, saying something. The man is taciturn at the best of times but finding out Atlas has both hands in his bread pan has made him worse than mute. These days he’s _sulky_.

Atlas’ temper ticks up a few degrees. He roughly grabs Jack’s shoulders and tries to dig his fingers in. Tries, because the muscles under his hands are like rocks.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Jack winces when he tries to shrug.

“Were you trying to lift the whole city?” Atlas jabs a knot with his thumbs until Jack, in a rare show of mortality, actually _whines_. The sound clears enough rage in Atlas’ head to make room for sympathy. “Shirt off, don’t make me ask nicely.”

The skin under the sweater is undamaged, which means this is a result of repeated stress and not blunt force trauma. Atlas takes his best guess at a massage but he’s never gotten one, let alone given one, and gives up when Jack makes another pained noise.

“Right.” He drags Jack into the closet alcove, then sits him on the floor and busts out a medkit.

“It’s fine--”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Atlas snarls as he cracks open a tube of self-heating gel, “Because last I checked, you’re the one who thought hiding two locked-up shoulders was a grand fucking idea. Your opinion is _shit_.”

Jack doesn’t say anything as Atlas slathers his shoulders. He slaps a bandage over everything to keep the gel in place, swearing under his breath as he takes in the full scope of Jack’s injuries. He’s a mean son of a bitch, hand-raised to be stronger than three men put together and twice as fast, but genetic perfection can only do so much against the splicer horde: Jack’s skin is strewn with lacerations, stab marks, and what’s sure to be a rainbow of bruises by evening. Atlas sighs heavily and does what he can because he needs this man to help him save Rapture. Because he paid an ocean of blood and several lifetime’s worth of money to bring Jack into this world. And god help him, he thinks as he ties off the last suture, because he’s grown fond.

Jack hates him; he sees it in his face every time Atlas makes a request because Jack knows how easily it could turn into an order. And Jack loves him; he sees it when Jack doesn’t think he’s looking, in the still moments between fights or when Jack is just coming to consciousness in the morning. The power of those three words. Atlas rests his hands on Jack’s legs, cataloging the injuries in case Jack lives long enough for them to require follow up.

“You’re important,” he says quietly. “Why do you think you’re not important?”

Jack, looking mildly bemused, says nothing. Atlas wipes his hands on his pants and gets to his feet.

“We should get back to base,” he says, turning to go without waiting to see if Jack follows. Jack has to follow. There’s nowhere else for him to go.

  


* * *

  


That night, Atlas decides he needs some time off. He puts on the phonograph and pointedly gets lost in a book that’s so absorbing he has no attention to spare for his pet human disaster. Jack flutters uncertainly for a while, unsure how to handle unstructured free time without going out, before finally sitting on the floor to mend his sweater. The hem is frayed at best, and a few holes have started developing in a way that suggest the stupid thing is on its last legs.

Hidden between the pages of Atlas’ third-hand copy of _Love at Last: the Coulpepper Saga_ are Suchong’s colorful summary reports on Jack’s development. It’s a long shot, but Atlas skims the lines in search of clues on the man’s recent sulkiness. Most of it isn’t relevant to the current situation: the original plan had been to get him into Rapture, have him murder Ryan, and then let him die of natural causes or splicers or whatever finished the job. There was no scenario in which Jack lived long enough to figure out his origins, let alone had time to have feelings about them. 

_“Age four months,” Suchong writes, “Physical equivalence: approximately 5 years. The child keeps asking to be played with. Tennanbaum indulges him but I have neither the time nor the patience. I am increasing the dosage of Lot 111 in the hopes of getting past this needy phase.”_

_“Age five months, physical equivalence: 8 years. Permitting the child to play with Little Sisters was a mistake. He seems to have emotionally imprinted on one and keeps asking to spend time with her. It’s an interesting development, but I’ll have to increase his conditioning to keep it from happening again.”_

_“Age: ten months, physical equivalence: 13 years. Mental conditioning is progressing well. I gave contradictory orders as an experiment, which caused fit-like symptoms for the duration. If these results could be replicated they could be an effective interrogation technique…”_

_“Age: thirteen months, physical equivalence: twenty years. The child has been asking to see Atlas more often. I thought I had stamped out this kind of imprinting the last time it happened, but since Atlas is paying for all this we let it slide. It might make the child more tractable upon his return to Rapture.”_

Atlas stifles a snort at the last one. It’s hard to think of Jack as emotionally imprint-able, or tractible.

When he gets bored of reading Jack’s baby book, Atlas makes them dinner and sends Jack to bed with strict orders to get a full night’s rest. The bubbling resentment on Jack’s face is a fair tradeoff for how much better he’ll feel in the morning.

Except he doesn’t. It’s subtle, but now that Atlas is watching closely he sees Jack’s unsteady step as he emerges from his room, the bleary way he stares at the gurgling coffeemaker. He chugs coffee down in a way that could be mistaken for more sulking but, now that Atlas is paying attention, is clearly exhaustion.

“Why are you tired?” He asks over his own breakfast.

“Bad dreams.”

“You dream?”

And there’s the glare Atlas was expecting. “Of course I dream,” he snaps, “Just because you grew me in a petri dish doesn’t mean I don’t dream.”

Atlas, not known for his tact and still stung by Jack’s reticence the day before, says, “Actually boyo, you were already 8 weeks along when we got you. Had to make a fake womb and everything.”

Stony silence spools out between them.

“Eggs on the counter,” Atlas says, as though he hasn’t delivered a low blow straight to Jack’s sense of humanity, “Make breakfast, if you want.”

Jack sips his coffee, staring over the rim of his mug with moody, dark-circled eyes. Atlas shoves down a twinge of sympathy. This isn’t a man, he’s the vague outline of a human made of ADAM and two generous handfuls of genetically implanted mind control. At the end of the day he ordered Jack from a catalog, and Atlas can hardly believe his idiot heart ever thought to look Jack’s way.

He stands abruptly, chairs scraping on the checkered linoleum. “Changed my mind. Grab a pep bar or something, we’re going out.”

  


* * *

  


Clearing out the different sectors of Rapture is difficult enough, but the fact that each one has its own rotating cast of characters and idiosyncrasies makes it hard to strategize. Today marks Atlas and Jack’s first day in Apollo’s Square, which is why they’re completely unprepared for an errant bolt of electricity to ping off a metal wall sconce and straight into a Big Daddy. It bellows in challenge, swinging its Little Sister up onto a massive shoulder and loading a rivet gun that probably weighs more than all of Atlas’ furniture combined.

“Shit,” Atlas mutters, switching from pistol to crossbow as he casts an eye for high ground. “You good for this?”

Jack is already juicing up. His veins flare with Eve-light, sending arcs of lightning between his fingertips and the floor, and Atlas is abruptly reminded that Jack doesn’t just use Adam. Unlike the sorry addicts staggering around this broken city, he’s made of this stuff. Was born of it. Atlas scrambles up a makeshift blockade as Jack hurls himself headlong into the fight.

It takes 3 Eve hypos and most of his crossbow bolts before the Big Daddy’s headlights finally flicker. It stumbles, sways to one side, corrects, and overbalances in the other direction. It’s going down and will probably crush the screaming Little Sister still clinging to its shoulders. Atlas supposes that’s one way to get the Adam out of her but Jack, as always, has other ideas. He sprints towards the falling monster just as the Little Sister loses her grip and is launched off its back; he dives to catch her, and curls around her just as the Big Daddy crashes to the ground on top of them.

_“Jack!”_

The impact scatters debris into the air. Atlas throws himself off his perch, nearly turning his ankle in the process, and runs toward what has become a pile of somewhere between one and three corpses.

“Jack, can you hear me?” He calls, searching for some sign of life. There’s nothing but the huge, dead thing Ryan made out of a man, its suit still letting off steam in a long, unending hiss. Atlas tries to roll the Big Daddy over by the arm; when it doesn’t move, he braces both feet and heaves his weight against it. “Come on you useless dead asshole, _roll over!_ ”

The suit’s hissing calms just enough for him to hear a muffled wailing.

Atlas redoubles his efforts, desperately straining against the creature’s bulk. Slowly he manages to move it, the body finally yielding enough for a child’s hand to claw out from the dark.

“Move,” he grits out.

“Take her,” Jack says, shoving the child through the tiny gap.

“I can’t hold it get _out_ \--”

_“Take her!”_

Atlas’ muscles start to give; he screams and ducks lower to wedge his shoulders underneath the Big Daddy’s chest. Down here, he can see Jack curled protectively over a howling little girl, her eyes lighting them both with a sickly yellow glow. Jack shoves her out from under her dead protector, then finally, finally takes a portion of the creature’s weight. Atlas sucks in a breath and snarls, “Would you-- _kindly! Get out of there!_ ”

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice. He clambers out from under the monster that nearly killed him and then nearly crushed him. Atlas lets the thing collapse and lets his own body give out, folding gracelessly to the floor.

“What is wrong with you,” he wheezes, letting his head loll to one side so he can see Jack. The Little Sister has thrown herself into a corner, cowering in fear as Jack, bloody and battered and clutching a possibly broken arm, makes a stream of gentle noises as he approaches, like she’s a scared stray dog he wants to save. Atlas snorts and rolls his head back to a neutral position.

“All this for one of Tenenbaum’s little Frankenstiens,” he grumbles. He’s not watching, but he still hears her fight when Jack reaches her. He still sees the silent burst of light as Jack separates the slug from her stomach sets her free.

  


* * *

  


The Little Sister sleeps the whole way to Tenenbaum’s safe house. Jack tries to carry her until Atlas smacks him upside the head and hoists the kid onto his own back. If they’re going on this stupid sidequest, Jack is going to watch Atlas’ back for a change. He grudgingly settles the child and resolutely ignores the lovestruck expression that flits across Jack’s face. It doesn’t suit him.

Thankfully they arrive without incident. Jack pounds on the door and looks meaningfully into the security cameras when they click on.

“Easy doc,” Atlas says, squinting into the sudden onslaught of light, “You want everybody to know we’re out here?”

Tenenbaum’s snort comes through loud and clear on the intercom, but the doors grind heavily open to reveal her in the entryway, arms crossed over her chest with a cigarette burning in one hand. “I thought you already had a cause,” she says.

“Yeah well,” Atlas says, turning the Little Sister in his arms so Tenenbaum can give her a quick once-over, “The alternative was letting your idiot science project get killed and I need him to--”

“Finish your mission, yes, you have said.” Tenenbaum guides him to one of the nurseries. They tuck the newest Little Sister into an open bed, dim the lights, and ease the door shut behind them. “Yet you seem to have found a new one.”

Atlas scowls. “I didn’t hire you for the commentary.”

“No,” Tenenbaum agrees with a nasty curl of the lip, “You hired me to take a child, strip away his free will, and force him into adulthood so you could live out your fantasy of burning down--”

_“Liberating--”_

“--a city of terminally selfish men.”

“Right, because that was such a departure from what you were already doing. I didn’t exactly hear you protesting, _Doctor_.”

She shrugs, taking a long drag on her cigarette. “Making child monsters for Ryan, making a child monster for you. It was the same.”

“Jack is nothing like what you were doing for Ryan,” Atlas growls.

A series of childish yells cut across their argument. In the main room down the hall, four little girls have combined forces to wrestle Jack to the ground; two have securely attached themselves to his legs, another stands on tip-toe to wrap both arms around his torso, and a fourth hangs precariously around his neck. Jack is making exaggerated sounds of struggle as he carefully adjusts the children and collapses (safely) to the ground. The girls give a squeal of victory and dogpile on their fallen prey, prompting more children to come flying in to “hold him down”.

Tenenbaum hisses a long sigh of smoke. “You’re right,” she says, the corner of her mouth turned up in a nearly imperceptible smile, “Jack turned out good.”

Atlas sighs. Their argument is an old one, acted out for its familiarity over its merit. Nobody can get his dander up like Tenenbaum, and during times of high stress they’d pair up as verbal sparring partners to avoid taking the tension out on anyone else. Those times were supposed to end after Ryan’s bastard son came home. After the man was killed and the city was taken, and everything they’d worked for had come to fruition. It was supposed to get easier by now.

They watch the girls play with their younger, adult-sized cousin. He could bat them away like flies, and instead he makes a half-hearted escape attempt while groaning dramatically about how they’re too strong for him.

“Don’t think I’ve heard him talk this much all week,” Atlas grunts.

Tenenbaum doesn’t answer. When Atlas glances her way, he finds her watching him with a cocked eyebrow, cigarette smoldering down towards her first two fingers.

Atlas nods at it. “Gonna burn yourself.”

Tenenbaum doesn’t startle because surprise is a human emotion. She takes a last quick drag before dropping the cigarette and stubbing it out. “Seems you’ve been burning for some time.”

Atlas scowls. “Don’t you start.”

She leans back against the wall, fishing a box of cigarettes and a lighter from her skirt. Placing one in her mouth, she pauses, then meaningfully taps out a second stick in Atlas’ direction.

Atlas doesn’t trust Brigid Tenenbaum as far as he can throw her, but it’s getting on toward evening and he’s had a day full of clearing out splicers and looking after a man who seems bent on martyring himself. He crosses the hallway to share her wall and takes the cigarette, flicking the lighter on long enough for them both to light up. Eve is too precious to waste on something like this.

They smoke, and watch Jack play with the girls, and don’t say anything for a long time.

Eventually Brigid asks, “Could you trust someone if they had full control of you?”

Atlas sighs. Smoke curls between his teeth and out of his nose. “I certainly couldn’t love them, no matter how they felt about me.”

Examining a hole in her dress, she says, “Sounds like you have to make a choice.”

“What, between Rapture and _him?_ ” Atlas gestures to where a Little Sister is sitting on Jack’s lap, reading a grimy picture book to her reverent crowd. Jack is listening as closely as any of the kids. “I didn’t come down here to play fairytales. I’m no hero and he’s no damsel. He’s not even a real _person_.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Tenenbaum sneers, “‘I’m no hero,’ ‘my mission,’ ‘what I must do.’ Is it truly so difficult for you when circumstances change? Did you also panic when it rained on the surface?”

“So, what, I’m supposed to--”

“Despite our efforts to make a killer, Jack does _good things_. Look at all these free children if you need proof! And your cause is a good one. I don’t know why you think, given the choice, it isn’t one Jack would choose.”

“I can’t take that chance,” Atlas says. “I can’t do this if he walks away.”

Tenenbaum growls German under her breath and gestures agitatedly to whatever she’s saying. She ends with something that sounds distinctly like a curse, then takes a deep breath and drops the second cigarette. “It’s getting late. Dinner is potatoes if you want it,” she says crushing the ember underfoot.

Atlas wants Tenenbaum to be right, wants to believe that a Jack given his freedom would stay by his side. Wants so badly to imagine a future where they work side-by-side to free the city, building it up in a stronger, cleaner version of Ryan’s nightmare fantasy utopia, and once they’re done they go home for the night, together and happy after a long day of good work. He feels the hope flutter in his chest, and he holds it for a brief, shining moment before crushing it to dust between his fingers. “We’d better head out. Thanks for the safe haven, doc.”

Tenenbaum rolls her eyes as he tells Jack to say goodbye to the girls. They whine and Jack looks sad, but he does as he’s told with a promise to visit soon. The reinforced door groans heavily shut behind them, and they head home through the ruined city.

  


* * *

  


Time passes in neutral silence. They eat, clear splicers from Atlas’ growing territory, and return home with minimal interaction. Atlas has started responding to Jack’s injuries by tossing a first aid kit in his general direction and leaving him to his own devices. Let the kid handle things how he wants, Atlas is done trying to convince him to take care of himself.

The circles under Jack’s eyes deepen. On patrol he’s jumpy and trigger-happy in ways that make splicers unavoidable; at home, he goes from slouching to horizontal before he can even remove his shoes. Watching Jack drool into the upholstery for the third day in a row, Atlas is glad he doesn’t know what the kid is dreaming about. Anything that can affect him like this can’t be good.

He sends Jack to bed, again, with orders to get a solid eight hours of sleep, again. And spends the next hour tossing in bed when his brain decides to ignore his own advice and _go to sleep, goddamn him_. Atlas stares at the ceiling. He listens to the alarm clock tick. When that gets annoying he exiles it to the hall and stares at the nothing in silence. He glares at the golden beaker on his desk because it’s too damn bright and shoves it to the back of his closet. He sits at the window, watching schools of fish go by. A whale calls. It sounds lonely, out there in the deep.

Atlas snorts and gets up to find his dressing gown. If he’s awake enough to brood, he’s awake enough to do something useful with his time.

Which is why he’s sitting on the couch fifteen minutes later when a door creaks open. He looks up from the umpteenth reading of Jack’s user manual to see the man himself frozen in his own doorway, caught in the act of _sneaking out in the middle of the night._

“What,” Atlas says, “The fuck.”

Jack looks like a startled deer. Without breaking the statue impression, he starts easing the door closed.

“Oh no,” Atlas growls, storming to Jack’s room in a flurry of papers. He bangs the door open, voice rising with anger. “No no no, I saw that! You _get out here._ ”

Jack tries to fight him off but despite being bigger and stronger in every measurable category, he can’t stop Atlas from grabbing two fistfuls of his god-awful sweater and throwing him out into the hallway. The fabric gives up the ghost with a loud rip, tearing the front from shoulder to hem and revealing the collection of injuries Jack has been building for the past week.

...that isn’t there?

“What,” Atlas breathes.

He drags them both to the living room. Jack's frantic attempts to hold his shirt closed might be funny, under different circumstances.

“Hold _still_ , would you kindly,” Atlas barks, shoving Jack to the floor yanking his shirt up. Jack was made with accelerated healing; Atlas has seen it at work, turning cuts to scars and broken bones into minor inconveniences in a matter of hours. But his extensive roadmap of wounds is gone, not just healed but gone without a trace. Even Atlas’ careful stitching is missing. And Jack, who has never backed down from a fight, Jack who survived plane crashes and Big Daddies and learning his life boils down two scientists and an asshole who decided to play god with his existence, flinches. Actually flinches, like Atlas’ touch is worse than anything Rapture has thrown at him.

Atlas exhales slowly. It’s not enough to stop the shake in his hands, but he manages to control his voice. “Listen carefully. I’m going to ask you what the fuck is going on. I’m giving you one chance to answer me. If you don’t, I’m going to ask again nicely and I don’t _fucking care_ how you feel about that. So: why are you awake when I very clearly told you not to be, and when the _fuck_ were you out of my sight long enough to go through a Vita-Chamber?”

Jack tries to twitch out of Atlas' hold, fails, grits his teeth. “It's not--”

Atlas hauls him up by his ruined sweater and snarls, “Would you kindly _tell me where you've fucking been?_ "

Jack squeezes his eyes closed. "Atlas," he chokes, "Please--"

"Oh, I'm sorry,” he grabs a fistful of Jack’s hair and uses it to drag his head back, “Do you need me to ask a little nicer? Would you kindly stop _bullshitting_ and _tell me--_ ”

Jack screams. Atlas recoils in surprise and Jack crashes back to the floor. His body goes terrifyingly rigid as his back arches like a drawn bow, then starts to convulse wildly. If the first scream was shocking, the ones that follow are worse.

“Holy shit,” Atlas whispers.

Jack wretches. It jolts Atlas back into action; he grabs Jack’s shoulders and forces him onto his side, but all Jack’s stomach brings up is an unsettling yellow froth. He’s trembling all over, eyes rolled back in his head as he scrabbles for purchase against the floor, and _jesus mary and joseph_ his mouth is actually turning blue.

“Jack, breathe,” Atlas shouts over his screaming, “ _Would you kindly keep breathing!_ ”

Jack takes a great gasping breath, choking as he accidentally breathes in the bile and foam. “ _Please,_ ” he sobs.

At a loss, Atlas sits heavily on Jack’s legs to stop the kicking and strips out of his bathrobe to shove it under Jack’s head. “Okay, okay, I can fix this, would you kindly relax--”

Jack _wails_. He curls into a tighter ball, one hand clutching his rib cage right over his heart. The other hand claws his head hard enough that blood wells up around his fingernails.

“ _No,_ ” Atlas shouts, grabbing Jack’s wrists. It takes every ounce of strength he has, but he manages to pull Jack’s hands away before he can gouge lines into his own skin. “Talk to me, Jackie, tell me what’s happening.”

“I can’t,” he grits out, “ _Do both_ please I’m sorry _please_.”

“Both? Both of what?”

_Age: ten months. I gave contradictory orders as an experiment, which seemed to cause fit-like symptoms for the duration._

The pieces click together. “Would you kindly forget every order I’ve given you in the last five minutes!”

Jack abruptly stops seizing. He curls protectively around his core, heaves in a breath and coughs it out, then draws another. Atlas waits a full ten second to make sure the convulsions have passed, then draws Jack’s body to his own chest. Jack grabs fistfuls of Atlas’ sleeves and buries his face against Atlas’ shoulder with a noise heartbreakingly close to a whine, and Atlas’ traitor heart twists in his chest.

“‘Fit-like symptoms’ my ass.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He threads trembling fingers through Jack’s hair as he catches his own breath. He holds them together as the shaking settles and adrenaline calms. “Don’t worry about it.”

  


* * *

  


Atlas downs two shots of low-grade whiskey before switching to a glass. Jack usually prefers to smoke, but tonight he follows Atlas’ example and they polish off the bottle between them. Probably not the best thing to do after a seizure, but they just puzzled out Jack’s genetically conditioned self-destruct sequence with nothing but a guess and a prayer and they've earned a fucking drink.

They’d tried having Atlas tell Jack to ignore all orders given by anyone else, and when that didn’t work, all orders full-stop. Both options apparently sounded like contradictions to Jack and had to be quickly retracted.

“Okay,” Atlas says, swirling his whiskey so the ice clicks against the glass. “So you can neither confirm nor deny that you’ve been sneaking out at night because someone told you to.”

Jack gives their pre-arranged signal for ‘yes’ by doing nothing. 

“And you also can’t say who did this, or what you’ve been doing.”

More nothing. Jack looks like he wants to say something, but his mouth remains stubbornly shut.

“And you can’t write it down? That’s not technically saying anything.”

Jack shudders.

“Okay, okay,” Atlas backtracks, “Can’t write things down either, got it.”

Someone has skipped their merry way through Jack’s brain and left a minefield in their wake. The only way to undo the damage is to convince the culprit to fix it; Atlas could probably narrow the suspect list to three or four people, but has no way of confirming his suspicions without Jack’s help.

“Okay.” Atlas sips his whiskey thoughtfully. “If --listen closely, I’m saying ‘if’-- _if_ you were to do whatever it is you’re supposed to do tonight and happened to spot someone following you, would you have to do anything about that?”

Jack mulls this over. “I don’t think so,” he says slowly, “And I still have to, to--” he trails off in frustrated silence.

Atlas roughly pats his shoulder. “Valiant try, boyo. Come on, get your guns. Looks like we’re going out.”

  


* * *

  


Jack leads them on a meandering path through Rapture. He stalks through Neptune’s Bounty with purpose, but slows as they leave their home turf for the Farmer’s Market. Atlas tails closely as Jack examines one of the many bodies littering the street, moving the stiff limbs seemingly at random. This one doesn’t have what he’s looking for, so he moves on. The next body one also comes up short in some way, as does the one after; Jack repeats the process until he finds what he’s looking for in the still-warm corpse of a young woman wearing a green dress and a rabbit mask. Her machine gun falls from limp fingers as Jack hoists her over one shoulder. He then chooses a man in a tuxedo, at which point his internal compass changes direction towards the closest bathysphere. It recognizes enough of Ryan’s genetic code in Jack to open the door, unleashing a stench that makes Atlas wretch. 

“ _Jesus christ,_ ” he blasphemes, backtracking to the end of the gangplank with a hand over his mouth. Even though he’s no stranger to dead bodies anymore, whatever died in there is pungent enough to make his eyes water.

“Oh,” Jack coughs.

He ducks into the bathysphere and returns carrying the stiff in question. Atlas stares at the bloated, runny corpse and swears behind his hand. Jack drops it over the side of the gangplank and wipes both hands on his own pants, smearing various shades of brown on the cloth.

“Forgot I left that there,” he says.

Judging by the decay, the body has been there for about a week. “Was that when I couldn’t raise you on the radio?”

Jack nods. He keeps compulsively rubbing his palms against his legs, over and over like he doesn’t feel clean. It’s the only indication that any of this has disturbed him. The unusual display of human emotion makes Atlas feel things he really doesn’t have time for right now.

There isn’t much to be done about the smell, but they managed to dig a champagne bucket out of the rubble and take turns slopping out the worst of the rot. Jack sets both fresh bodies on the floor and pointedly watches them so he can’t see Atlas follow him inside.

“Can’t remember the last time I was in one of these,” Atlas says, eyeing the leather seats. They might be nice if they weren’t still sticky with Jack’s week-old body fluids. “Where to next?”

Jack selects a destination.

Atlas’ stomach churns. His jaw clenches. He grips an armrest hard enough that the decorative filigree snaps between his fingers and clatters to the floor. 

Jack looks at him. It takes a moment for the reasoning centers of Atlas’ brain to register that he looks concerned.

Atlas takes a deep breath, releases the ruined armrest, and lets his hands clench into fists at his sides. “Suppose that explains the bodies, then.”

  


* * *

  


The bathysphere announces their arrival in Fort Frolic with an incongruously cheerful ding. Some kind of music playing in the distance, far-off like there are a few walls between them and the source. Atlas kicks the door open the moment repressurization finishes, slotting bullets into his revolver as he stomps into the reception hall. Jack tags along after him and catches his arm.

“Not now, Jackie,” Atlas says without stopping.

Jack pulls harder.

He whirls and angrily jerks free. “ _What?_ ”

Jack is still looking at him with the concerned expression. It hasn’t let up since Atlas started pacing in the bathysphere and is only slightly marred by the two bodies he’s carrying over one shoulder. He looks like he doesn’t know what to say, which isn’t exactly a departure from status quo. “Don’t storm in.”

“Oh, got a plan then? Alright, master strategist, let's hear it ” 

“Let me go first.”

“Want to say goodbye to your new best friend?” Atlas sneers. He knows it’s not fair to take his anger out on Jack, but if it doesn’t go somewhere Atlas might just have a heart attack out of rage. “Maybe trade friendship bracelets before I blow his brains out and hang him up as a festive door knocker?”

Jack scowls. “I don’t want you hurt. Stay behind me. Please.”

Atlas glares. When this has no effect, he glares at a broken floor tile. This is the second time he’s heard Jack say ‘please’, and it’s no less effective than the last. “Fine,” he spits, spinning his revolver shut, “But the second he does anything, and I mean anything, I start shooting and I don't stop until I can see daylight through the side of his head. Got that?”

The line of Jack’s unencumbered shoulder relaxes a hair. He doesn’t do anything as dramatic as smiling, but some of the tension eases out of his face and that’s not nothing.

In for a penny, Atlas supposes. “You actually got a plan?”

Jack adjusts the bodies in his arms. “Hang back and wait for a good opportunity. I’ll distract.”

"That's it?" Atlas says, " _That's_ your plan? You're going to go in like nothing is amiss and just hope I come up with something?"

Jack shrugs. It would be a pretty convincing picture of nonchalance if it weren't for the softness lurking around the lines of his mouth and the way he looks at Atlas’ shoulder instead of his eyes. "You're what I've got."

Atlas' idiot heart bursts from confinement and surges up from the depths of his chest. After everything they've been through, after growing the man from an embryo and putting him under mind control and using him to kill his own father and lying to him every single step of the way, Jack still believes that Atlas will save him. He might be the last choice on Jack's short list of options, but at the end of the line Jack really and truly believes that Atlas will find a way to get him out of this. The weight of Jack's trust is staggering. Atlas knows he doesn't deserve it, but deserving something has never stopped him from taking a thing and he grabs it with both hands and _holds tight._

"I'll get you out," Atlas says quietly, "If it costs me and everyone in there our lives, the last thing I'll do is get you out."

"Get us both out," Jack replies.

He approaches the main entrance and kicks on the shuttered door. After a moment, his radio crackles to life; Atlas clicks his own radio on low to listen in.

 _“Ah, there you are,”_ Cohen purrs, _“I was starting to worry something had happened.”_

Jack doesn’t respond. It’s nice to know he does that with everyone.

_“And I see you’ve brought me some presents! How thoughtful. Do come in, put them with the others and meet me in the music hall. I have some new poses I’d like to try.”_

The doors clatter open. Fast, chaotic music spills out of the widening gap. Jack walks through like he isn’t carrying almost 300 pounds of dead weight. Once the spotlight is firmly trained on him, Atlas ducks under the closing gate and skirts through the shadows gathered in the corners. Aside from Jack’s spotlight the room is dim and murky, lit by a Vita-Chamber in the corner and flood lights focused on a plaster monstrosity that’s taken over what once was Fort Frolic’s stage of coming attractions. Almost a dozen statues stand in various poses, holding up pictures and various pieces of weaponry seemingly at random. Unsurprisingly, some of them still ooze blood from cracks in their plaster. Cohen has been busy since Atlas last visited.

Jack places the bodies near the stage. He turns towards the staircase, catches Atlas’ eye, and mouths _‘stay here’_. 

Atlas makes rapid, angry gestures to show that he isn’t happy about this. 

Jack rolls his eyes.

Atlas flips him off.

 _“I’m waiting, little moth,”_ Cohen growls through the overhead speaker system. Atlas’ temper had cooled now that he has an opportunity to act, but the nickname cranks his blood back up to a boil.

Jack gives a last, meaningful look before ascending the stairs.

Cohen’s latest musical number was attention-grabbing when it first oozed under the shutters, but standing in the atrium of Fort Frolic, Atlas decides it’s maddening. He lurks in the shadow of the main staircase as the cacophonous piano climbs and crashes, again and again like a head being beaten against the wall. Atlas drums his fingers on his folded arms. He mutters oaths and obscenities under his breath. He taps his foot and, when that isn’t enough, paces back and forth in the short shadow. What is Jack doing up there? What are they talking about? Just as his nerves reach their fraying point and he’s about to start creeping up the staircase himself, the music crunches to an abrupt stop. Atlas freezes, but no spotlights or security drones find him. There’s silence for a long minute before he catches the distinct shouting of Cohen working himself into a mood. It rises in volume until Atlas can just make out the words _“waste of my time!”_ , then a sharp, terrifying gurgle of pain.

All is quiet for another moment before the Vita-Chamber whirs to life. Green light ricochets off the walls before forming an amorphous shape at its center. To Atlas’ horror it twists into a torso, then limbs, then an entire human silhouette. The excess electricity flees and the glass doors slide open, allowing Jack to be born.

_“Jack!”_

Atlas darts across the floor in time to catch Jack as he falls out of the machine. He has one hand defensively covering his face, the other clutching his throat as he shivers all over. Atlas didn’t get to use a Vita-Chamber before they went on lockdown, but judging by Jack’s violent return to life he can’t say he’s sorry to have missed it.

“Talk to me,” he says, lowering them to the floor, “This was such a stupid fucking idea why did I let you talk me into this, are you alright?”

“M’fine,” Jack says once he figures out how to breathe again.

“Fine--? This is _fine?!_ You just died--

“I’m _fine._ ”

A spotlight hits the top of the staircase. Atlas drags them further into the shadows, hissing, “This isn’t fine, Jackie! I never should have let you walk back in here--”

“It was my choice. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Don’t you make this about me--”

“Oh, I’m just so embarrassed,” Cohen is saying as he comes down the stairs, like he’s talking to a cultured audience after committing some social faux pas, “It’s not like me to lose my temper like that--”

“I come back,” Jack says. He reaches up with the hand not holding his throat and grips Atlas’ wrist. “You don’t.”

Atlas searches Jack’s face. He looks worried, and scared.

“Please let me do this,” he whispers.

Atlas’ naive heart beats faster. He squeezes Jack’s hand, plants a quick kiss on his head, then slinks into the shadows cast by a pedestal holding a glass bell jar just as Sander Cohen rounds the staircase.

“There you are,” he cooes, crossing the floor in long strides. There’s blood sprayed across his face and shirt, and he’s carrying one of his hooks in a way that suggests he has no idea where it came from or how it could have been used so violently. “I truly am sorry, that sort of thing never happens to me! I suppose your tardiness upset me more than I knew.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

“Of course, if you had been on time that little scene might have been avoided.” He stoops and catches the hook just under Jack’s chin, using it to tip his head back. With his free hand, Cohen traces the line of Jack’s throat, painting blood down his windpipe and running a sticky fingertip over the hollow of his throat. “Though I must admit, those final moments were quite a tableau: arterial spray arcing through the spotlight, viscera spilling over your fingers, the expression on your face...”

He trails off, lost in the memory. Jack doesn’t move, trying to keep the sharpened hook from piercing the soft tissue under his jaw. His eyes flick to Atlas’ hiding place. Seeing him there seems to give Jack the resolve to relax under Cohen’s grip.

Cohen comes back to the present with a shudder; Jack winces when the hook digs into his skin. “Mm,” Cohen says contentedly, “Shame you didn’t have your camera. But we can’t spend all night reminiscing! We have work to do, don’t we?”

Jack, propped up on his arm with his vulnerable neck fully exposed, gives a reluctant nod.

“Wonderful.” Cohen claps his hands. He stands, brushing wrinkles from his filthy, bloodstained suit. “Go upstairs and get your corpse. There’s just so much to do!”

Once Cohen turns back to his arts-and-crafts murder scene, Jack’s placid expression ignites into something murderous. He gets to his feet trembling with rage and takes a rare moment to indulge the emotion. One steadying breath later, he catches Atlas’ eye and gives an almost imperceptible nod, then disappears around the opposite side of the staircase.

Atlas wasn’t built for stealth, but living in Rapture has taught him how to move with a light footstep; he slips between the shadows of the pedestals and the staircase, creeping behind Cohen as he admires his ‘art’. He’s just behind the man, ready to jam his gun into the base of his skull, when Cohen says, “Oh, and one other thing.”

Atlas freezes. Halfway up the stairs, Jack does the same.

“Be a dear and go to sleep,” he catches Atlas’ eye over his shoulder, “Would you kindly?”

Jack goes down with a thud, but Atlas doesn’t have time to check on him as the room’s single spotlight darts back down the stairs. It’s joined by several more, all of which pivot to rest squarely on him.

“That’s better,” Cohen says, turning to fully face Atlas. “Did you really think you could sneak into my home without my knowledge?”

Atlas grabs Cohen’s lapel with the hand not holding a gun and manhandles him backwards over the stage. “I am not playing this game,” he growls, jamming the gun up under Cohen’s chin, “Wake him up and fix this.”

“Now, Atlas,” Cohen says, slightly strained from the angle of his neck, “I know you’re upset that I borrowed your toy without permission, but can you blame me? You truly made a perfect creature--”

Atlas shoves the pistol against Cohen’s temple. “Wake him up, _fix this._ ”

Cohen’s eyes are bright in the combined forces of his spotlights. “What an intimidating performance, I’ll circle back to that later. Alas, you and I both know that’s all it is; you can’t kill me because you don’t know if I’ve left any fun little surprises behind. And you wouldn’t be here if you could remove them yourself, which leaves us at something of an impasse.”

Atlas feels his teeth bare in a snarl, but can’t deny that Cohen is right. He has them over a barrel.

“Luckily for you, I have a proposition.”

“You don’t get to make threats--”

“A _proposition_ , Atlas, no threats necessary.” Cohen gestures up at the plastered corpses lining the stage. “As you can see, I’ve had a fruitful collaboration with my little moth. I’d like that to continue, and as my muse comes and goes as she pleases I’ll need access to him whenever inspiration strikes.”

“No fucking way--”

“ _In exchange_ , I’m willing to let you keep Ryan Jr. whenever I don’t need him. Go off and save Rapture, or whatever it is you’re doing. We go back to ignoring each other as we always have. I must say, that was a mutually beneficial relationship.”

Atlas stares incredulously. Sander Cohen waltzed into Atlas’ Rapture, stole Jack right out from under his nose, took his sleep and made him collect dead bodies and taught him that touch was something to fear. And through it all, never even bothered to _learn his name._

“That’s a good deal, wouldn’t you say? I get a new protege in exchange for not irreversibly scrambling your pet’s brain.”

Atlas points the gun down and shoots straight through Cohen's foot.

Cohen shrieks. Splicers hiding along the walls and ceiling scream in sympathy. His weight automatically shifts away from the pain, leaving him leaning against the stage with one arm while he desperately clutches the remains of his foot.

Atlas grabs Cohen’s jacket and shakes him once to get his attention. “I don’t think you understand that I am _not playing this game_. You fix Jack-- that’s his name, by the way, _Jack Ryan_ \-- or next I’ll shoot your hands. The right, and then the left.” 

He shoves Cohen up onto the stage. Cohen fights him, trying to summon up a flame, but Atlas smacks him across the jaw with his pistol and kneels on his chest, pinning one arm out to the side.

“I won’t kill you, Sander,” he growls, pressing the muzzle of his gun into Cohen’s palm, “I’ll take your art. I’ll take your music. And if you still don’t let go, I’ll take my chances and cut out your tongue so you can’t even tell people what you would have made. You’ll never make anything again, and everyone will forget about the little bitch who used to write show tunes in Fort Frolic. _They won’t even remember so much as your name._ ”

Cohen glares up at him with a snarl. The splicers gab among themselves and the spotlights hum. Atlas stares him down. 

Finally, Cohen’s mouth splits into a grin. “Looks like you have more than a performance after all. Fine, I’ll let your little pet go in exchange for my hands, and one more thing.”

“You don’t get to dictate terms here.”

“Oh, I think you’ll like this.” Cohen’s expression clouds, the curtains parting on his cheerful host act to reveal the psychotic murderer underneath. “Neither of you ever darken my doorstep again. I don’t think either of us will get away so intact the second time.”

Atlas drags them both to where Jack lays sprawled across the stairs. Cohen follows his deprogramming instructions to the letter. His orders turn out to be surprisingly simple: come back every other night for work, under no circumstances take violent action against Sander Cohen. Don’t tell Atlas.

“...and disregard any and all instructions I’ve given you,” Cohen repeats dutifully. “That’s everything, I think.”

Atlas repeatedly clicks the safety on and off his gun while making pointed eye contact.

“I’m not being cute, I really do think that’s everything.”

Atlas narrows his eyes. “If I find out you’ve lied to me--”

Cohen throws his hands in the air. “I really don’t know what else I can do to prove my cooperation here. This may come as a shock but I do follow your exploits on the news, I know you’ll go through with your threat.”

Jack’s eyes flutter open on Atlas’ command. He blinks the groggily awake and sits up, wincing when the movement pulls a fresh bruise from rolling down several stairs.

“It’s okay,” Atlas says, grabbing Jack’s shoulders to steady him, “You’re okay.”

Jack looks up into his face. His eyes flick to Cohen, who’s muttering under his breath about how the blood oozing from his ruined foot clashes with the tiling, then back.

“It’s over,” Atlas says.

“I’ve been collecting bodies so a crazy man can do arts and crafts,” Jack says experimentally. He seems surprised the words came out.

“Yep.”

“He made me pose for hours,” Jack says with a darkening expression. “I was up all night standing like a statue. It felt like I'd never move properly again.”

“You were a very good model,” Cohen says as though this is some kind of compliment.

“Two of those corpses are mine.”

Atlas glances at the stage. Sure enough, two of the paper-mache bodies are wearing a familiar sweater. He takes a deep breath. He holds it. After a count of five, he pulls an Eve hypo from his pocket and tosses it to Jack.

“What,” Cohen asks.

Jack looks at the syringe in his hands, tilting his head to one side in confusion. 

Tonight has been rough enough that Atlas privately lets himself admit the gesture is cute. He ruffles Jack’s hair, then turns his heel. “I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

“Now wait a moment,” Cohen says with rising alarm, “This is not what we agreed.”

“Said I’d let you keep your hands,” Atlas calls over his shoulder as he skips the last few steps, “Jackie, if you’re in a mood to be fair, let him keep his hands.”

“Atlas--” Cohen shrills over the tell-tale sound of the hypo’s auto-inject.

Atlas slips his hands in his pockets. He’s feeling pretty good, all things said and done, and picks up a jaunty whistle as he ducks under the half-raised shutters and Cohen starts to beg.

  


* * *

  


Atlas pulls the shutter closed with a definitive clatter. He briefly considers standing guard, but his radio crackles a few times before Cohen’s panicked voice comes through. Atlas smiles to himself. Jack seems to be indulging his narrow sadistic streak by broadcasting Cohen’s tragic demise over the general band.

Good for him.

He clicks the radio off and wanders further into the metro. Atlas didn’t have time to visit Fort Frolic when it was open, but uses the sudden boon of free time to explore the entryway. He admires the crumbling architecture and hacks a vending machine for the principle of it. An impressive number of faded posters decorate the billboard, highlighting attractions of old; Atlas loots a creme-cake out of the trash and uses the filling to draw on them.

He’s just finishing painting buttercream graffiti on an announcement for Patrick and Moira when the shutters clatter back open. Jack emerges from the atrium, his trademark sweater tied around his waist. His arms and undershirt are splattered with blood and wet plaster. There’s a streaky handprint across his face and his wrench will need serious cleaning before it can be used again, but he looks relaxed and at ease in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

“All done?” Atlas asks, eyeing the gore smeared up and down his front. 

Jack nods. He looks thoughtfully at the altered poster. “Why did you pretend you had a family?”

Atlas looks at Patrick and Moira, who now sport matching glasses and blacked-out teeth. “It gave Ryan a fake target, and when he blew up the sub it made me more sympathetic.” He shrugs guiltily. “In hindsight, I could have come up with something less dramatic.”

Jack wipes his hands on his pants. That will become a nervous tic if he’s not careful. “You already had my sympathy.”

“Not like I deserved it,” Atlas snorts. “Want to deface some posters? Here’s one of Cohen.”

“I already de-faced the real thing,” Jack says with surprising calm.

Atlas runs an eye him over. He hadn’t expected such a violent response, but in the end it wasn’t his decision. “Suppose you did. Come on, let’s find you something to sit on in the bathysphere. We’ve already made enough of a mess.”

  


* * *

  


They stagger into Neptune’s Bounty just as the clocks strike 6 in the morning. Jack ends up standing under a broken piece of tunnel to wash off the worst of the grime. He comes out shivering and stinking of sea water, and spends a solid half-hour showering off the lingering mess they get home. Atlas absently throws some things together into stew while Jack gets clean; he continues thinking while they eat, ignoring the increasingly concerned looks Jack is making across the table.

After much deliberation, he asks, “Mind sleeping in the living room tonight? I’ll take the floor.”

Jack pauses, spoon sticking out of his mouth, to arch an eyebrow at him.

“I’m paranoid,” Atlas says with a shrug, “It’s kept me alive so far, and if you stay in your room I’ll just end up keeping us both up by checking on you every few minutes.”

Jack finishes the bite slowly. He buys himself enough time to choose his words, then says, “Not like you to ask.”

Atlas stirs his stew to avoid eye contact. “I’ve been on the fence about it, but it’s come to my attention that it’s rude to, you know, _demand_ this kind of thing.”

A second eyebrow arches to match the first.

“Forget it,” Atlas grumbles, shoving his chair back from the table, “I’ll check in you in a few hours--”

Atlas stops when Jack grabs his arm. He didn’t even hear the quick bastard stand up. Jack tilts his head questioningly to one side.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Atlas mutters, giving his arm a half-hearted tug.

Predictably, Jack doesn’t let go. He looks at Atlas like he’s trying to divine a fortune out of the dregs of their dinner, then finally says, “Thank you. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

It should be a nice thing to hear, but Atlas’ heart drops uncomfortably into his stomach. He shakes Jack’s hand off in earnest. “Don’t be stupid, take the couch. Lord knows you need it more than I do.”

“I was reborn two hours ago.”

“That takes its toll.”

“You’ll throw out your back.”

“Are you calling me _old?_ ”

They bicker about sleeping arrangements until, in a fit of bullheadedness, Atlas drags his cot into the living room. Despite Jack’s protests that the Vita-Chamber makes his new bodies at the peak of health, he’s passed out on the couch by the time Atlas is done. He shoves Jack until he slumps into something that could reasonably be called ‘laying down’, throws a blanket over him, shuts off the lights, and crawls into his newly relocated bed.

And once again can’t sleep.

Atlas stares at the ceiling. He rolls onto one side, then the other. He punches his pillow into submission, kicks the blankets off, then retrieves them from the floor again. After ten frustrating minutes of this, he gets up to put the exiled alarm clock back in his room and can just make out a gold glow of Lot 192 from under his closet door. Prone to self-flagellation whenever the opportunity strikes, Atlas fishes it out from under a pile of shirts and sets it back on the desk.

_“I know you’re upset that I borrowed your toy without permission.”_

He drags his chair into place and slouches into it, placing his index finger on the flask’s top rim and tilting it onto one rounded edge. Cohen hadn’t seen anything wrong with making Jack do his dirty work because he didn’t think of Jack as a real person. He was a thing to be wound up and set loose, because at the end of the day the things Cohen needed were more important than Jack’s human autonomy.

The thought is depressingly familiar. It’s been bothering Atlas for some time, but having it thrown in his face by an idiot in stage makeup makes the situation impossible to ignore.

He watches the liquid crawl up one side, glowing in the dim light of a Rapture morning. Despite being as old as Jack, the concoction bubbles as merrily as it did the day it was mixed. Or boiled, or brewed, or whatever Suchong did to make a literal bottle of liquid freedom.

He tips it to one side, then the other. He slowly spins the flask on its bottom edge, one finger keeping it from tipping over, and lets it roll to the very edge of his desk. It could fall. One accidental slip of the hand and the moral dilemma would smash all over the floor. It would be easy. It wouldn’t even technically be Atlas’ fault, gravity being a universal constant and all that.

Atlas narrows his eyes at the leggy fluid. It burbles back at him, poised on the edge of two divergent futures. He glares at it.

“He’s mine,” he says, letting the words sit heavy on his tongue. He’s said them so many times and it’s always been true. “I _made_ him.”

_“Your toy.”_

He sighs heavily, putting his frustrations into a long, slow breath that doesn’t make him feel better. Atlas sets the beaker on his desk and shoves angrily away from the desk. He throws himself onto the cot and lays with his arms crossed until his brain finally gets bored with tormenting him and lets him sleep.

  


* * *

  


Emerging from their base the next afternoon, Atlas packs a bag and leads Jack with purpose. Their work over the past week makes it easy to skirt the few remaining splicer packs between Neptune’s bounty and Apollo Square. Jack, who’s facial expressions have become increasingly communicative, watches Atlas enter the code to Yi Suchon’s clinic with growing curiosity.

It’s unsurprising in shambles, waterlogged and crumbling in the wake of Rapture’s fall. They pick their way through the worst of the debris, tip-toeing around corpses to avoiding startling the splicers who aren't dead, squeezing between collapsed walls when it’s possible and finding alternative routes when it isn’t. Atlas sets up a few turrets on some sturdier bits of high ground, and has Jack set a few proximity mines around the corners. Jack questions this was a silently raised eyebrow, but doesn’t voice anything.

The route takes them through the main office. Jack stares at a body that seems to have had unfortunate words with a Big Daddy.

“Don’t think that one’s coming back,” Atlas says sarcastically.

Jack shakes his head, eyes still on the corpse. “I know him.”

Atlas steps closer for a second look, then whistles long and low. “If it ain’t the good doctor himself. Guess this is why he stopped showing up.”

“Was he involved in…?” Jack vaguely gestures to himself.

Atlas nods reluctantly. “Yeah. He invented the stuff that made you grow, and that,” He flutters a hand around his own head. “You know.”

The hand gestures are a new feature of their conversations, but it’s enough to get the meaning across. Jack nods slowly. He looks like he’s trying to remember something that keeps flitting just out of reach. It doesn't look pleasant.

Atlas lets him skip down memory lane for another moment, then clears his throat and nods to the door leading to the next room. “Got something for you.”

The second flask of Lot 192 is at the back of the flooded office, making the water glitter as they slosh towards it. Atlas places his own flask next to it on the desk as he stumbles over its explanation, hands shoved deep in his pockets . The most perfect human ever created, Atlas’ personal pet Frankenstein, takes a bottles with shaking fingers. He’s staring at Atlas in a way that’s both grateful and accusatory. “You had this the whole time?”

“I had half,” Atlas folds his arms defensively, “You need both to make it work.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “Why now?”

Atlas lets his gaze sweep around the room, taking in the half-destroyed study, then books floating in the shallow water. “Can’t exactly say I fight for the people then turn around and keep you under control, now can I?”

“That never bothered you before.”

“Are you going to take the damn thing or not,” Atlas snaps, “Because there are some nasty side effects and I didn’t spend the last hour setting up a perimeter so you could stand there and gab at me.”

Jack is still staring at him. He has the key to his own freedom in his hand and he’s staring at Atlas.

Atlas drags a hand down his face in frustration. “Okay, yes, in your position I wouldn’t trust me either but you’re killing me, kid. I am trying to do the right thing and this--” He waves a hand to indicate Jack’s lack of action, “Is not inspiring confidence. Is this like in movies where the horse needs to go free and the horse woman has to yell to make it leave? Is that what you want?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

_“Then what’s the hold-up?!”_

Jack still hasn’t looked away. He only seems to be half-listening to Atlas’ meltdown, attention turned inward to something Atlas can’t see. He looks like he’s slotting information into an existing structure and things finally make sense.

Without warning, he uncorks a flask and slugs back the first dose of Lot 192 in one long draft.

“Fucking finally,” Atlas mutters as Jack grimaces.

He helps Jack through the tremors, then the cramps, then the rapid plasmid shifts. They climb onto dry furniture when Electobolt activates, and he gallantly shoves a panicking Jack back into the water when fat, fuzzy bees start climbing out of his sleeves. All through it, Jack keeps looking to Atlas for reassurance like some kind of emotional touchstone, and Atlas, damn it all, supports him through it.

The first dose stabilizes after ten minutes of plasmid-cycling hell, after which Jack looks pale and winded. Atlas holds the second flask for him, tipping the solution into his mouth when Jack's hands shake too badly to do it himself. It brings another round of cramps bad enough to send Jack to his knees but no further plasmid outbursts, thank christ.

When the gasping subsides, Jack looks up at Atlas, who shrugs.

“Well, that’s that then,” he says with false nonchalance. His thumbs the safety back on the pistol tucked into his waistband.

Jack squares his shoulders. Despite the fact that he couldn't so much as stand up a moment ago, he rises to his full height, curls both hands into the front of Atlas’ shirt, and lifts him off his feet just enough to stand on his toes. Atlas’ fingers tighten on his gun, but he can’t seem to draw it. He made this bed. Time to sleep.

Atlas flinches when Jack shoves him into the wall, grabbing Jack’s strong wrists to keep himself upright.

“That’s that,” Jack agrees, breath hot against Atlas’ face, and jerks him forward.

They collide in a violent clash of teeth. Jack kisses like he’s in a fight he doesn’t want to win, like he’s laid out a thick layer of bravado to cover his uncertainty. That makes sense, Atlas thinks idly, since he’s probably never done this before.

After a moment without progress, Atlas reaches up to tilt Jack’s face for a better angle. Jack allows himself to be repositioned, then makes a startled noise as their mouths slot together in a much more interesting way. Then leans in. And if Atlas loses track after that, well. He’s only human.

  


* * *

  


_Epilogue_

Jack stays. Tenenbaum was right, both about Jack being a good person and about Atlas’ cause being a good one. Together they clear out the splicers. They put down the Big Daddies. They move the worst of the debris to the edges of Rapture and, when possible, set up defenses to give regular folks a fighting chance. It’s hard, sweaty, thankless work, and Atlas feels justified when he uses their precious moments alone to steal some affection. 

He gives Jack Suchong’s reports to see if they jog Jack’s memory. “Says you had a crush on me,” he teases.

“It does not.”.

Atlas flips to the relevant report, helpfully tapping the where the passage reads “imprinting”. He might be smirking.

“You're the one who hid these in _Love at Last_ ,” Jack huffs indignantly.

They rescue Little Sisters and bring them to Tenenbaum for safe keeping. Something about seeing the girls safe and happy makes Jack’s face soften in ways Atlas likes. It’s nice.

“We saw you Uncle Jack!” One of the girls cries, latching on to his legs while another flings herself off a chair onto his shoulders. 

Jack smiles at them and lets two more grab his arms, flexing like a strongman so they can hang from his truly ridiculous biceps. “Did you, now?”

“We did,” she says, sending the other girls into a flurry of giggles.

“When?” He asks, setting the children back down.

“When you were _sitting in a tree!_ ”

The reference sails clear over Jack’s head. Atlas, who was raised topside and still knows all the childrens’ songs by heart, folds his arms with a resigned sigh.

“I… didn’t do that,” Jack says hesitantly, looking fond but confused.

“Jack and Atlas sitting in a tree,” the girls chant.

Jack freezes when they get to the next line. He suddenly won’t look at anyone. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and to Atlas’ utter amazement, blushes bright red. Jack’s eyes flick up to meet Atlas’, then dart away as a tiny, _lovestruck_ smile curls his mouth.

“Guess I did do that,” he says shyly.

“Holy shit,” Atlas breathes.

Tenenbaum smacks him upside the head for swearing in front of her girls, but when the kids break into laughter and Jack rushes forward to make sure he’s alright, Atlas finds he doesn’t care in the least.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it! Under all the gruff Atlas is an idiot romantic.
> 
> I like to think Atlas 1.) has a real name buried somewhere in the annals of history and 2.) that he came to Rapture as an honest mechanic specializing in vending machines. When Rapture started to go sour, he took a role. In an ideal world there would be descriptions of him working with the rest of his people and what they think of Jack but. If I don't post this fic now I'm never going to and that would be a shame.
> 
> So! Thanks for reading, hope you're staying safe as best you can. Feel free to contact me a katan-a-rama.tumblr.com or at my writing blog, spinach-productions.tumblr.com .


End file.
